{Nicole Anstalionah.}
I met with Sansir as he reviewed the listings of troops, gear, and supplies, his fingers tapping softly against the table as his eyes moved line by line.
On paper, everything appeared sufficient. The numbers were clean. The margins precise. Units accounted for, equipment catalogued, routes mapped.
And yet, no amount of ink could ever carry the true weight of preparation.
War was never fought on parchment. It was fought in blood, exhaustion, and fear, things that could not be tallied.
Sansir read directly from the report, one he had overseen personally. I could hear the fatigue beneath his steady tone.
After my brother approved the plans, the castle had transformed into a hive of motion.
Messengers ran the corridors day and night, quartermasters barked orders until their voices grew hoarse, and soldiers drilled until their armor rang like bells.
Everyone moved with purpose. With urgency.
We all wanted to finish before he woke.
Not because he demanded it, but because it felt right. A testament to his growth. A recognition of the man he had become.
He had risen so high that I often caught myself looking inward, measuring my own worth against his shadow.
I was wondering whether I was permitted to stand beside him at all, or whether I was merely standing there because he allowed it.
Sometimes I wondered if this feeling was unique to me, or if it was simply the cost of standing near greatness.
I had seen others move through the world with certainty, people who carried expectation as easily as breath, who never seemed to question whether they deserved the ground beneath their feet.
I wondered if any of them ever lay awake, feeling hollow, measuring their worth against the achievements of those they loved.
Or if that quiet doubt was something I alone nurtured, like a secret weakness I refused to name.
I told myself it was foolish. I had authority, influence, command, things many would kill for.
And yet none of it silenced the small voice that insisted I was only here because I had not yet been dismissed.
That if I faltered, even once, the truth would finally surface: that I was an imitation of resolve, a placeholder mistaken for something real.
I wondered, briefly, if my friend, Jennifer I thought of ever felt the same emptiness… or if she had already learned how to stand without asking permission.
I crossed my legs as Sansir reached the end of the document.
"And finally," he said, clearing his throat, "we have approximately three hundred medical personnel. We intend to distribute them evenly, around ten per group."
I nodded once. "You'll need more than that."
Sansir looked up. "More?"
"And they should not be embedded with higher-ranking units," I added.
He hesitated, brow furrowing. "Most of them are trained to handle minor injuries. Stabilization, quick recovery spells—"
I shook my head.
"You're thinking about wounds. I'm thinking about collapse. What happens when half the army is wounded at once? When exhaustion overtakes discipline? When morale fractures faster than flesh?"
He stared at the page for a long moment before exhaling and letting the papers drop onto the table.
"Alright," he said quietly. "I'll see what can be done. But without the Golden Authority, our reach will be limited."
"My brother was clear," I replied. "No assistance from them."
My brother was many things. Above all, he was a fool.
And yet… this order felt necessary.
I had never placed my full trust in the Golden Authority. Their influence was too deep, their interests too opaque. Still, my brother had placed his trust in me.
The thought unsettled me more than it should have.
I was worthless in my own estimation, and yet he allowed me to act. To command. To decide.
Sansir folded his hands together, contemplative.
"Then there's the matter of trade reformations."
My little brother had wanted to overhaul trade entirely, rewrite negotiations, tighten routes, maximize long-term profit.
An ambitious goal, though not without merit. We were already among the wealthiest nations, our people well cared for, but cracks remained.
The national debt lingered, stubborn and heavy.
We could erase it with a single payout.
But wisdom demanded restraint, especially with war looming.
"That can wait," I said. "Malachi should be returning soon."
Sansir sighed. "That man is… odd."
At that exact moment, the doors opened.
Malachi entered the chamber alone.
Normally, I would have escorted him myself. Today, he needed no such formality.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the air shifted. It was subtle, but unmistakable, like pressure settling before a storm.
Sansir stiffened, his fingers tightening reflexively around the discarded papers.
Malachi's presence was commanding in a way that defied explanation, as though the room itself recognized him.
He inclined his head toward me, not quite a bow, but a gesture layered with expectation.
The sight alone made Sansir's expression falter, awe bleeding into unease.
Malachi took the seat beside Sansir at the round table, once again occupying the position that seemed to mark his place among the living and the powerful.
"I didn't mean odd in that sense," Sansir said quickly. "More like… greatness. An oddity of greatness."
Malachi offered no response, though a faint glimmer passed through his eyes.
"The nobles are shifting," he said calmly. "After our efforts, many have conceded."
Sansir leaned back, lips curling slightly. "Ah. So the royal court has gone silent. How inconvenient."
I knew Sansir belonged to a noble branch, though which one no longer mattered.
Whatever quiet maneuvering he had done behind closed doors now felt insignificant compared to what lay ahead.
"The war begins in one day," Malachi continued. "Before then, a formal declaration must be sent."
Both of them turned to me.
The weight of authority pressed down on my shoulders. I held the highest command in the room, and still I felt as though I were learning to walk in armor far too heavy.
"I'll send it now," I said. "Did you bring the papers?"
Malachi reached into his coat and placed a sealed letter on the table.
I read it once. Then again.
Satisfied, I sealed it and tossed it into the air. It vanished mid-flight, leaving behind a faint trail of darkness that dissolved into nothing.
"This war will not bring suffering," I said. "It will not end in defeat or heartbreak. These are my brother's wishes."
Sansir laughed softly. "Arrogant. Incredibly arrogant."
Malachi grunted, mildly amused. "A greedy wish. Only someone like him would dare make it."
I stood, placing both hands on the table.
"So what if it is?" I said. "Yes, it's greedy. But we are all greedy bastards. We are all prideful bastards."
They laughed, laughed to dull the truth, to keep it from cutting too deeply.
But beneath the humor, worry lingered.
Worry should never fester into fear. Worry should become refusal. I let the silence stretch.
"Do you refuse?" I asked.
Their surprise was immediate.
In Anstalionah, it was an old tradition, nearly forgotten. When faced with the impossible, one must refuse it.
To refuse was not denial. It was defiance. "We refuse," they said together.
I faintly smiled. "Good. Then let us finalize the future."